


We Don't Pray For Love

by blanchtt



Category: Orphan Black (TV), X Company (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, F/F, Gen, Pre-Canon, Pre-War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-05
Updated: 2016-11-05
Packaged: 2018-08-29 06:55:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8479537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blanchtt/pseuds/blanchtt
Summary: “You understand, don’t you, chicken?” she asks, confidence tinged with regret, and Sarah can only nod. If there’s one thing Mrs. S likes more than taking shots at the English, it’s shooting at the Germans.





	

 

 

 

“You understand, don’t you, chicken?” she asks, confidence tinged with regret, and Sarah can only nod. If there’s one thing Mrs. S likes more than taking shots at the English, it’s shooting at the Germans.

 

“Sure,” she admits, and taps her fingers against the warm side of the teacup. She’s almost twenty-seven. It’s not like she needs Mrs. S around anyway, but it doesn’t make it any easier, and a flicker of anger has Sarah scowl as she watches Mrs. S clean her gun, infuriatingly unmoved by it all. First the Great War takes her family, now this one takes Mrs. S. 

 

“I’m going with you,” Sarah announces, because like hell is she going to sit here and wait for everything to be over. Not again. She’s old enough to fight this time and she’s gotten into enough scrapes to know she can handle herself in just about any situation. 

 

The answer is automatic and infuriating and, worse of all, hurtful. Mrs. S hardly looks up as she finally sets her gun aside, gets up and turns away. “I can’t have that, love.”

 

The words settle in the silence, _no_ and _love_ a constant battle between her and Mrs. S, and Sarah pushes her tea away. It’s childish to think so, but that flicker of anger flares again, brighter. Doesn’t anyone want her around?

 

“Fine. Then I’ll go by myself.”

 

And that seems to get a reaction out of her - Mrs. S looks up, stricken, and she _does_ care. Sarah knows that, deep down. But Mrs. S has always given her enough rope to hang herself with, has never been a fan of telling her what to do. It’s just not in her. 

 

And so Sarah pushes back her chair, gets up, and heads upstairs to pack.

 

 

-

 

 

You don’t just leave your studies mid-semester at the Sorbonne. It’s just not done, and especially after all the hard work she’s put in to get there. 

 

Her family writes to her to come home, to settle down, and, if she really insists, to finish up at a school closer to home. Cosima replies back that she’s doing well and to give everyone back home her love and that she’ll see them all soon. But she gives them no solid date.

 

Like hell is she going home to give up school, get married, and push out three kids. 

 

There are rumors of Germany stirring again, and Cosima can believe it. The country’s been in turmoil since the Great War, and if something’s going to happen, she wants to be around to see it, to write home about it. Which, admittedly, writing isn’t her forte, but she gives it her best attempt. 

 

She gathers up her things she’ll need for the rest of the afternoon, homework and essays, pens and pencils, German dictionary, and shoves them into her bag and heads for the cafe. She walks at a brisk pace, no wheezing and coughing today - an improvement over yesterday - and grabs a table for them at the cafe. 

 

The advantage of being first is, of course, that she places her bag on the chair next to her, saving that seat for Delphine.

 

 

-

 

 

If there is one thing that she despises over the hurting of children, it is the hurting of innocents. 

 

She’s seen enough corpses on the street over the course of her life to know not to look too closely. It’s an imagine that cannot be easily forgotten. But she can’t help but notice the body out of the corner of her eye, and Helena adds it to the tally that runs through her memory.

 

For every Ukrainian death, a Russian one will come to by her hand. She’d sworn that at sixteen, hungry and with nothing but a knife and a rucksack to her name. 

 

So far it’s only been fourteen kills since then, and Helena bows her head, feigns piety as she walks by a church though it’s only to hide her smirk. _An angry angel,_ everyone had begun to whisper. _An angry angel, come to right wrongs._

 

The introduction of the Germans has slowed that tally, though. As for them, she’s taken out only four, a pitiful number. She continues walking, past the butcher, the library, the cafes, until she’s at the edge of the village. If she walks due west or, better yet, catches a ride, that number might climb higher soon. 

 

Helena reaches behind herself, pats her rucksack to make sure her knife is tucked away safely, and starts walking.

 

 

-

 

 

It’ll be a pity to leave Tony in New York, but they’ll all be inducted at some point, won’t they? The volunteers have gone, and now it’s slim pickings and the army’ll be scraping the bottom of the barrel. Better to go voluntarily on his own terms, rather than shipped out in a company of narrow-minded strangers. 

 

“Wonder what kind of action you’ll see in France,” Tony teases with a shit-eating grin, and Felix rolls his eyes, downing his drink quickly.

 

“I don’t care what kind,” he drawls. “I only care how much.”

 

“And how big.”

 

And because it’s a bar where anything goes, Felix reaches out, pushes at Tony playfully with a hand. “You’re terrible.”

 

Tony grins again and shrugs. “Don’t lie to me, Fifi. You’re a nice guy, but you’re not going over there just to help.”

 

“You make me sound like a downright ass,” Felix says, and because it’s true and because it’s him and Tony, they both laugh. “And you’re right.”

 

He’ll miss Tony and his knuckleheaded schemes, definitely. But wherever there’s an excess of strong young men, lonely and with wartime knowledge he can use to his advantage, that’s where he works best.

 

 

-

 

 

Young love is stupid and reckless and marriage is a joke, and if she ever has children she’ll make sure to tell them so and warn them away from it, because Donnie’s gone and volunteered for the army and what in the world is she supposed to do now?

 

Alison sniffles, thinks _don’t you dare cry at work_ to herself fiercely, and focuses on manning the telegraph lines. 

 

That’s a way she can help, and working outside of the home is new and exciting and necessary! But at the end of the day the others go home to children, to husbands that haven’t been shipped off yet or stupidly volunteered - and what does she have? An empty home, Donnie gone, and no children. A failure.

 

And it’s in their cold and quiet home, sitting at the dinner table alone, that Alison makes a stupid and reckless decision. They would never send her over to fight, of course, but buying her own ticket to France isn’t out of the question. She can put her talents to use without having to sit through the torture of listening to Louise talk about her sons every day or smile along with Caroline in the break room as she beams about her baby’s latest milestones. 

 

After cleaning up, Alison slips into the garage, grabs a stool and gets up on it and reaches for the box she knows Donnie keeps his gun in, the one at the very top of the cabinet he thinks she either doesn’t know about or can’t reach. 

 

She’s lucky that Donnie’s family never really saw past the pretty face, the pearls, the dresses, and she understands now her mother’s overwhelming relief when they had gotten married, her assumption that she’d somehow put her troubled and wasted youth firmly behind herself. 

 

 

-

 

 

Delphine writes, and writes, and writes still, and each letter that is neither returned nor answered makes her stomach turn. She switches to writing in German, and then in French, and still nothing. 

 

She mentions it to no one - and has no one to mention it to, really - except Cosima. 

 

“They’re probably fine,” Cosima says, but her tone does not inspire confidence and the furrow of her brow belies the worry she doesn’t voice. Delphine bites her tongue to keep from doing anything - tearing up, shaking, running - and pushes away the coffee she’d ordered. 

 

“If it worries you,” Cosima offers, “I know a girl.” And Delphine almost laughs at that, because she’s learned that the type of people that Cosima knows are hardly the law-abiding kind, and she wonders what she’s getting herself into. Cosima smiles, the mood a little lighter with that, and sits back in her chair confidently. “Sarah can definitely help us.”

 

Delphine nods in agreement, reaches up to wipe a tear that threatens to fall. It’s silly, to get so worked up over one missed letter. It’s nothing. 

 

But it really isn’t, and it’s more like ten unanswered letters, and Cosima looks pained as she reaches out, as she clasps Delphine’s hand and admits, “There’s someone I haven’t heard from in a while either.”

 

Delphine turns her hand over in Cosima’s grasp, twines their fingers together and takes a deep breath. “I think it would do us both good to meet with this Sarah, yes?” Delphine says, sounding much more calm than she feels.

 

Cosima nods, curls bouncing against her cheek, and squeezes her fingers before letting go. “Alright. Now, enough moping,” she says decisively, reaching into her bag and pulling out a stack of paper. “I have a ton of work for you to look over, _mon ami!_ ”

 

And Delphine remembers why exactly she’s here, and how they’d moved from a student-tutor relationship to something more, and gets down to work. 

 

After ordering more coffee, after going through her work, correcting only a few French grammatical errors, they pay and finally part, kissing goodbye in the guise of _le biz_ , and agree to meet back at Cosima’s apartment later, the stirrings of a plan in mind.

 

 

 


End file.
